


Long Way Home, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Sam reacts to the results of the special Congressional election he entered in fourth season.





	Long Way Home, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

   


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**The Long Way Home**

**by:** Blanche

**Character(s):** Sam Seaborn  
 **Pairing(s):** None  
 **Category(s):** Drama  
 **Rating:** TEEN  
 **Summary:** Sam reacts to the results of the special Congressional election he entered in fourth season.  
 **Written:** January 2003  
 **Author's Note:** Many thanks to my great beta, Lori.

This is the first story in the series with the same name. 

Sam watched, numb, as the big flat-screen TV showed the final election results. _Webb: 69%. Seaborn: 29%._ The Green Party candidate got the remaining two percent. He was surprised that the Green Party had polled that much in Newport Beach. But then he was surprised that he’d polled that much in Newport Beach. There were no more miracles. Not after Will Bailey had gotten the dead Democrat elected last November. A live—and liberal—Democrat was just too much for the Beachies to cope with.

He’d be happy for all this to be over. He would be celebrating just to have it done with, just plain everlastingly done with. Webb could have the election and Webb could have Newport Beach and God, how had Sam come out a liberal Democrat anyway, growing up in this accursed town? There was a ponderable for you. There was a question to be answered somewhere along the way. His father certainly wasn’t a liberal Democrat. His father certainly was a number of other things, including no longer registered to vote in Newport Beach. At least the California 47th didn’t include Santa Monica, so that Sam didn’t have to wonder if his father had crossed party lines to vote for him...

"Sam?"

It actually took him a moment to register that someone was talking to him, to turn his head and see Toby, who had a phone in his hand.

"Better make the call now," Toby opined. "Then they can play your speech and you can go get drunk."

Sam swallowed down bile, hating the moment after all. But only because it was Chuck Webb, surely. Only because of that. "Yeah. You have the number?"

"Any time you’re ready."

"Let’s go, then."

Toby beckoned him into the greenroom for silence. Amy insinuated herself into the room just before Toby closed the door, putting her hand on Sam’s arm as Toby dialed the number. Amy, his fundraiser for this past and final week, and good at it. Toby had been good too. Neither of them had been good enough to undo the damage inflicted by Scott Holcomb’s self-serving sabotage.

Webb’s campaign manager must have picked up, and put Webb on the line, because Toby was holding the phone out to Sam. He took it and said into it the things you said, the things you had to say, because that was what you did, that was what you said. And Sam still (in the public eye, and for a few minutes longer) represented the President, and the President might some day need the good will of the man who had now officially been reconfirmed in his seat as Congressman Webb. Then Webb said all the things _he_ had to say, because Sam represented the President, and Webb might some day need the good will of the President. Webb needn’t have bothered, from Sam’s point of view. He already hated Webb, had hated him (as he’d told Donna) before the campaign began, and as for representing the President... well. Webb didn’t know.

_Not yet, anyway,_ Sam thought as he gave the phone back to Toby. Nobody knew yet. Toby would find out soon enough. As for Webb, who really cared what a jackass like that thought of him?

"Sam? Sam, you coming?"

Toby again. Sam said, "Yeah," and followed Toby and Amy back to the ballroom. And the damn staff actually _cheered_. Sam mustered a smile, and then Amy said, "It’s on," and pointed to the big screen. Sam saw his own taped image appear: the networks were playing his concession speech. Well, really, things being what they were, what had the odds been that they would have had to play the acceptance speech, also taped earlier that day? At least the damn thing was short. Webb’s victory speech—no doubt that it was victory rather than acceptance; there were reasons Sam hated him—was not short, and someone finally yelled, "Turn it off," and whoever had charge of the controls killed it. That engendered hoots, whistles and Amy’s call of, "Booze in the back," which provoked a stampede of worn-out staffers to the liquor and food at the back of the room. Then, no doubt, a post-mortem of the campaign. Already.

Sam turned for the doors and found Toby in his way.

"Where are you going, Sam?"

"Upstairs, into my pajamas, and to bed," Sam snapped, too tired to be polite. "Do you mind?"

"I don’t," Toby said, "but the staff will. You have to talk to them."

Toby was right, of course. Sam went up to the podium and cleared his throat. The staff, champagne and sandwiches in hand, turned to look at him. He had to clear his throat again, not to get attention this time, but because it was going to be hard to say what he had to say. But he managed it. The usual thanks. The usual _Good job, well done,_ and _Sorry we didn’t make it,_ and the other compliments and things you said. Because that was what you said. Again. When he was done there was applause, which made him drive his fingernails into the palms of his hands to stop him biting his lips. Toby took the stand and said they would be taking down headquarters tomorrow, but for now just go ahead and party. That brought forth some emphatic and obscene agreements and a number of finger whistles, and a second raid on the refreshment tables. Toby said, "You don’t want anything, Sam?"

"I want my bed and several months’ sleep. Excuse me, please." And he pushed past Toby and headed for the door.

There he found Amy, two glasses of champagne in hand. "Here, Sam. I noticed you didn’t have—"

"Amy, I’m _tired_ , I don’t need to get drunk. I just need to get to sleep and be left alone. Congratulations on the new job with the First Lady. Now please excuse me." He brushed by her, evading the champagne, and headed for the elevators.

Toby got into the elevator just as the doors were closing.

"Damn it, Toby..."

"You know we have a five a.m. flight?"

"I know you have a five a.m. flight. I’m not getting on it."

"And why is this, may I ask?"

"Don’t you understand the word ‘tired’? Doesn’t anyone?" Sam’s voice cracked. "I’m not just talking about tonight, Toby, I mean I’m _tired_. I’m not going back to D.C."

"You’ll have to eventually."

"No, I won’t."

"Sam, if this is about us giving Will your job..."

"Screw that, Toby. Will can have the job. If you remember, I’m the one who pointed him your way. Or is your memory that short?"

"My sense of bafflement is brand new," Toby said, scowling, as they got off the elevator and walked towards Sam’s room. "Are you telling me you sent us Will on purpose?"

"Well, it was hardly an accident. You needed help on the inaugural speech."

"That’s not what I meant."

"All right, but if you mean did I send you Will on purpose to get him the job, I don’t care what you think." They had reached his door. "Now excuse me and good night." He stuck the key in its slot, opened the door, and shut Toby out.

He ignored his cell phone, which started ringing almost immediately. Toby, no doubt. Standing out in the hallway, using his own cell phone as an alternative to shouting and banging on the door, which just might get him arrested again. The phone rang five or six times and then shut up. Sam took it out of his pocket and put it on the bureau. Then, as a precaution, he turned the ringer off.

Apparently Toby was feeling persistent. A few minutes later, as Sam was undressing, the hotel phone rang. Sam picked up the receiver and hung up. Then he repeated the precaution of turning the ringer off. He crawled into his pajamas and flopped into bed. He was asleep in moments.

*****

In the morning he woke up only because a hotel staffer came knocking on his door. He had, of course, turned off the one means they had to give him his usual wake-up call. He looked at his watch, saw 5 a.m., and called to the staffer to give him three hours and try again. Then he switched the hotel phone back on and went back to sleep.

At eight o’clock, considerably more refreshed, he showered, put on casual clothes, and went downstairs to have a quick breakfast with his staff and join them in tearing down headquarters. They knocked off at six, with some left to do the next day, and then the staff, being mostly local, went out together. Sam had a seven o’clock reservation in the hotel restaurant, and it seemed only logical to spend the intervening time in the bar. He plopped himself down in a nice, dark corner booth, ordered beer and peanuts from the server, and was halfway through the beer before he realized what was strange.

_Normally at a bar either I’d be with the crowd from the senior staff or I’d have my laptop up and be working._ Well, that wasn’t the case here. His laptop was up in the room and he didn’t have any work to do anyway. Not anymore, he didn’t. He took a long swig of the beer.

_What did Toby say last night? Get toasted? Okay, right now it sounds pretty good._ And it should be pretty easy on an empty stomach with just the peanuts for company. He finished the bottle quickly, ordered another, and was partway through the third when a familiar black knapsack landed on the table with a thump and a wool coat followed rather more gently.

"Hi," Josh said.

"Hey! Zhosh! I din’ know you were here."

"Well, I am. With questions, which you will please answer. Why weren’t you on that flight this morning?"

"I was asleep."

Josh frowned at him. "Are you drunk?"

"I cer’n’ly hope so. Otherwise ’s a waste of good beer. You want one?"

"No, thanks." Josh sat down. "Sam, what’s going on? Toby said you were acting awfully strange last night. And you haven’t answered our calls."

Sam sighed. It seemed he wasn’t to be allowed to be drunk in peace. "He’s zhust—jush—all he is, is he’s upset because I told him I wasn’t coming back. At least I think I told him. There was a lot goin’ on ’bout then."

"What the hell do you mean, not coming back?"

"What part of not coming back do you not understand?" Sam said, his anger beginning to dissipate the effects of the beer. "I’m _not coming back._ I resign. I quit. You’re the Deputy Chief ’f Staff. I’m reporting to you. Officially. I can print up a nice spiffy-looking resignation letter ’f you wan’ me to, but it’d be kinda renun—redun—I mean overkill at this point."

"Are you saying this because you’re drunk?" Josh said, looking uncertain.

"I wasn’t drunk last night when I said it. Maybe I’m getting drunk because I’m saying it. I don’ know! But I’m leaving, Josh, never mind the promotion. That’s God’s hones’ truth."

Josh leaned back, disbelieving. "What did we do?" he said. "What did we ever do that you wouldn’t want to come back to work with us? For the President? With a _promotion,_ Sam!"

"You know what, Josh?" Sam said, thoroughly sober now. "You know what I’m wishing for right now?"

"Um..."

"A really big glass of ice water. So I can throw it in your face for the idiot you are. ’Scuse..." Okay, not quite sober. "Excuse me. I think they’re signaling me for dinner."

He got up, made his way out of the bar, and stood in the middle of the lobby, lost. It was only half-past six—he’d swallowed the beer down pretty quickly—and he’d only used the alleged dinner call for an excuse; not to mention he’d just insulted the best friend he had in the world...

"Sam," Josh said at his shoulder. "C’mon. Come over and sit back down and tell me what’s wrong."

His resolve wavered, almost gave way. To give Josh a fair chance, he said, "Come sailing with me tomorrow."

"Sailing?" Josh said doubtfully.

"In a boat."

"I know what it is." Fond exasperation. "I’m just worried you’ll be too hung over to steer."

"I din’ have that _much_ beer."

"And I don’t have any clothes I’m willing to go sailing in, and I’m not borrowing your wet-weather gear again." Pause. "Oh, come on, you’re not even going to give me a laugh for that one?"

"Get yourself a room for the night if you don’t have one," Sam said. "There should be at least a few. Some of my staff checked out today. We should be done tearing down HQ by noon. Come by my room and I can loan you some clothes. I’ll get the kitchen to pack us some lunch."

*****

The sailboat they rented was a small one, just big enough for the two of them and their picnic basket. Josh settled himself out of the way and got used to ducking as Sam maneuvered them out of dock and tacked back and forth across the bay until they were nearly out of sight of land. Sam said not a word. Finally Josh spoke up as they floated on the waves, the marina hovering on the horizon. "Sam."

"Yo," Sam said wearily. "But can we eat first? I’m hungry."

"Sure." Anything to keep him in a pliable mood, not that he was in one to begin with. Anyway, Josh was hungry too.

The hotel had packed them some generously-sized ham sandwiches, two large brownies, several bottles of cold soda (Josh could have used a beer—now—but Sam never drank when he was sailing) and a large bag of potato chips. They ate in a silence even deeper than the one in which they had maneuvered out from shore. The sun was warm, but not scorching; even in southern California it was winter. Sam methodically gathered their trash into a bundle and put it back into the picnic basket, then opened the bag of potato chips.

"No, thanks," Josh said. "I’m full. Maybe later. You going to talk to me now?"

Sam’s face went closed, not that it hadn’t been already; but there had been a certain measure of sailing-induced peace on it that now vanished. "You really want to know."

"If I come back without an answer Leo’s going to have my head on a platter."

"I didn’t ask what _Leo_ wants. I asked what you want."

Josh sighed. "Yes. I really want to know." Pause. Review the emotional content of what Sam had said... "Sam... is Leo part of the problem?"

"I don’t know why you’d think that."

"Stop being such a bitch." That got Sam’s attention. "What went wrong between you and Leo?"

"It wasn’t mutual."

"What did he do, then?" Josh said, realizing he was going to have be patient. And Sam gave a bitter snort.

"You don’t realize it, do you? Any of you."

"No," Josh said. Patiently.

"I know people who were at the Inaugural Ball."

"Of course you do. But which one? There were a lot that night."

"I mean the one where Leo gave away my job without thinking about it."

"Don’t you mean where Toby did?"

"Toby made the suggestion and had a backup plan for me, namely this asinine promotion. Leo," Sam said, "agreed without a thought and only then said, ‘Gosh, oops, what about Sam?’"

"Okay, that’s one reason... for being pissed at Leo. Not for turning down the promotion. I hope you have better reasons for _that._ "

"Will shouldn’t have left my campaign."

"You’re mad at him for taking your job?" Josh said.

"Clean out your ears, Josh. I don’t care that he took the job. I care that he was... available to take it."

"And another reason to be pissed at something completely unrelated to your current situation. Is there more?"

"You should never have stuck me with Scott and let him screw me over. If you were going to let me run you should have given me half a chance of winning—"

"Hey, Sam, we didn’t get you into this."

"Stop interrupting. What I mean is you could have gotten me a campaign manager who cared about my winning. The point isn’t whether I had a chance." Sam’s voice shook. "The point is you could have cared."

"Okay, enough." Now Josh was angry. "Don’t you go insinuating that we didn’t care. The White House can’t intervene in state-level party decisions. It was bad enough you were stupid enough to get yourself into this. Any interference would have looked like favoritism. Any interference would have been favoritism and you know it."

"Yeah. Well." Sam was looking down at the bottom of the boat. "You asked."

Josh waited a moment. After that moment and another had gone by he said, "So this is what you’re telling me? You’re mad at Leo but not at Toby, at Will but only for the first thing not the second, and at the whole senior staff for something we couldn’t help about something you started?"

"I’m not mad at the President," Sam said quickly. "He doesn’t have anything to do with this."

"I didn’t say anything about the President. Why would you be mad at him?"

"Well, I’m not."

"Okay."

"I’m not!"

"Sam, I got that. I’m just trying to get the rest of the picture. As far as I can understand you’ve got three more or less fair reasons to be pissed at one or more of us. Fair enough. But where does that translate to _I won’t take the promotion?_ "

"I’m tired, Josh. I need a break."

"From this conversation?"

"You know perfectly well that’s not what I mean."

"Yeah, I didn’t think so. Okay, we give you a vacation—"

"I don’t want a vacation. I’m _quitting_. Where in that word is something you don’t understand?"

"I understand the verb ‘to quit.’ I still don’t get your reasons why. Because you haven’t given me reasons for anything but a spectacular temper tantrum. What’s really going on, Sam?"

Sam looked toward land. "It’s time we got back in."

"Sam, cut it out and talk to me."

"There’s nothing to talk about." Still refusing to look at him.

"Sam, I can’t go back to Leo with that answer. Okay, so you’re giving him payback for screwing you over about your old job, and by the way, this would make a lot more sense if you were mad at Will about taking it, but do you want me to have to tell the President that you wouldn’t tell me what was going on?"

"Josh..." Sam drew breath and looked at him, finally. "I’m sorry that you’re going to have a hard time explaining me when you get back. I really am. But I can’t give you any more than I’ve given you. There just isn’t anything else to say."

"Sam," Josh said, agonized. "Please."

"And it really is time we got back in. The wind’s picking up. You want to stick those chips back in the basket?"

And that was all Josh could get out of him while they sailed back to the marina and made dock, and while Sam paid up. And driving back to the hotel in Josh’s little rental, and in Sam’s room while Josh changed clothes. Finally, handing the borrowed t-shirt and shorts back to his best friend, Josh said, "We’ll give you a three-month leave of absence. Take a vacation. Go sailing. Mess around some. Just tell me—"

"I’m not taking the promotion, Josh."

"Six months."

"I don’t care how much time you give me, Josh," Sam said quietly. "I’m not taking the job."

When Josh was back in his own room, it was a long time before he gathered enough nerve to pick up the phone and call Leo.  
  
  
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